


Like a bird on the wing

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Isle of Skye, Mountaineering, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya is on the Isle of Skye with a Scottish agent, pursuing Thrush which has designs on local fundamentalist Christians. Who will rescue them?





	Like a bird on the wing

“Ah, Mr Solo,” said Waverly looking up as Napoleon walked into his office. “Have a seat. It appears that we have lost contact with Mr Kuryakin…”

“What! Where? When?” Napoleon said sharply.

“Two days ago. He was sent to investigate reports of Thrush involvement with the Free Church of Scotland.”

“Why wasn’t I involved in the mission?”

“Mr Solo, you were not here. You were not needed. Mr Kuryakin was accompanied by another agent. A Gaelic-speaking Scot.”

Napoleon sat down with a thump, saying, “Who didn’t prevent his disappearance.”

“He is also missing.”

“I rest my case.”

Waverly put his pipe down with irritation and looked up. “The number of times you and Mr Kuryakin have _both_ been captured is more than I can count on my fingers… and possibly my toes. Your ‘case’, Mr Solo, is unproven.”

Napoleon stood up. “All right. Where do I go to find him?”

“Them, Mr Solo, _them_. They were last heard of on Skye. _”_

“Sky? Oh, Skye… the island.”

“Off the coast of Scotland – as I’m sure you are aware,” said Waverly sardonically. “So, you will fly to Prestwick airport – that’s near Glasgow, for your information – and hire a car to take you to the Kyle of Lochalsh, from where you will get the ferry to the island.”

Ignoring the slur on his knowledge of airports, Napoleon asked, “With the car?”

“Try to keep up, Mr Solo. With the car – it is a car ferry.”

It was probably as well that it was all sliding doors in headquarters or there would have been much slamming of them as irritated agents stalked out.

<><><> 

In a bothy overlooking a bay with no road access, the two agents were tied back to back. “We should have been more careful to avoid attracting attention. My fault,” said Sandy, adding as if in explanation, “– I’m Catholic myself.”

“What difference does that make?” demanded the Russian atheist dully: his head ached.

“These people are Free Church. It’s a punitive, joyless religion … gold dust to Thrush: restrictions on every damn’ thing.”

“What did we do to upset them?” Illya‘s knowledge of Gaelic was limited. He had been unable to follow the angry exchange between their captors and his Scottish partner.  

“It was Sunday.”

“I know it was Sunday.”

“They impounded the car. You’re not supposed to travel on a Sunday, according to the Wee Frees – and these seem to be even more fundamentalist than some.”

“Good God,” said Illya, mystified.

“Exactly. But whether good or otherwise, theirs is a far from convivial deity. It’s a pity they had the company of supporters of even less amiable deities.”

“Where are we? I remember a boat. From Elgol.”

“Aye. Camasunary was a fairly obvious choice – there are no roads – though we might be found by climbers. But, if not, they’ll be back soon, I daresay,” said Sandy philosophically, adding hopefully, “Maybe the Wee Frees will come back first – they said they’d bring food at least.”

Illya barely registered that so Sandy, in some concern, changed the subject and remarked, “I believe the best jokes about the Wee Frees are Catholic in origin.”

“Jokes? What’s so funny about this, may I ask?” Illya growled but, abandoning an incipient sulk, said, “So, tell me one of these jokes.”

“One good one,” said Sandy, “is: do you know why the Wee Frees disapprove of sex standing up?”

“No,” Illya sighed. “Why do they?”

“It’s because they fear it will lead to dancing,” and he twisted round to see Illya’s face, expecting a response.

Illya, unmoved, considered this then said, “What’s so funny?”

Sandy sighed in his turn. “It would spoil it to explain, but instead of disapproving of the sex… och, forget it. It’s just that they regard music and dancing – not to mention alcohol – as the works of Satan.”

Illya would have asked for further enlightenment but at this point they heard someone on the step outside and tensed. The door opened and a young woman entered carrying a basket.

“Are you all right?” she asked, looking with concern at the bruise on Illya’s forehead.

“How long are we going to be kept here in this ridiculous situation?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, it’s in the hands of the Elders of the Kirk. And those other people – the ones who brought you here,” she said, laying the basket down.

Illya turned a blue glare on her and said uncompromisingly, “Well, I need the bathroom,” a phrase he had learned in America but which meant something different here.

She was apologetic. “There isn’t a bathroom,” she said, “just a bowl and cold water from the burn. Why, do you want to take a bath?” She had never met anyone in the wilds who bothered to waste time and water on bathing.

Illya explained, using more graphic language. Blushing furiously, she said, “There’s an earth closet outside.”

“I can’t do it tied to someone else and with my hands behind me,” he snapped, “– unless you have some idea of helping?”

Her blush deepened. “No! … I don’t know what to do. I ought not to untie you.”

“I need to go too,” said her compatriot, smiling up at her. “Why not untie at least one of our hands, each. Then we can go together… It’s getting a bit urgent,” he added.

His more conciliatory style worked better than Illya’s frown. She bent to look at the knots then squatted to release the rope binding them together, as they knew she would have to do. Neither made any move that might alarm her, however; in any case their hands were still tied. She then retied the rope to join their left and right hands (as they hoped she would do) and finally released the other hand of each man.

They helped each other up and followed her out to the little privy outside. It was too small for both men and their contortions should have been comic, but neither felt like laughing. The girl had turned her back which also allowed them to work on undoing the rope unobserved. As Sandy released the final knot, he nodded to Illya; they turned together and seized the girl.

“Don’t struggle so much, we won’t hurt you – we aren’t like those people who attacked us,” said Sandy gently, his none-too-clean hand over her mouth, “and please don’t scream.”

The girl’s frightened eyes blinked rapidly in agreement and she subsided a little. Illya said, “When you came – was anyone watching? Were you followed?”

Sandy took his hand away to let her speak. “I don’t know,” she said. “No-one followed the boat.”

“Where is the boat now?”

“In the bay. My father’s waiting for me. He didn’t like what they did to you – that’s why we came… to see if you were all right.”

“Good. He’ll find you before too long, then,” said Illya as he tied her loosely to the bed. If he intended this comment as comfort, it fell a little flat. She burst into tears. Sandy patted her shoulder and, taking the water and food, the two men left her in the bothy.

They crept away along the burn to avoid being seen from the bay. “Where is best to head for?” said Illya. Their knapsacks and maps had been taken, along with their communicators, so he was at a loss.

Sandy pointed said, “We’d better avoid Elgol, that way, but the other way, north, would take us up Bla Bheinn. There’s a route down to the road on the other side. I doubt if anyone would expect us to go that way, though it’s not a hard climb, except in places. Have you done any mountain climbing?”

“Of course.” Illya looked up at the mountain – it might not be a hard climb ‘except in places’, but they lacked both walking poles and rope. There was little choice: the lower ground was not only boggy but they would be easy to spot.

“Head all right now?”

“I’m fine.”

“Right then. We’re fit, we have good boots, let’s go,” said Sandy, smiling confidently.

“All right, the mountain it is,” said Illya.

<><><> 

Prestwick airport was some distance from Glasgow, it seemed. Driving carefully on these narrow roads, Napoleon negotiated small towns and villages until he reached the outskirts of the city. A nightmare of contradictory signs, roadworks and diversions forced him to pull in and ask for directions. The responses he received were equally contradictory even when he understood what was being said. Finally, someone showed him where he was on the map and where he needed to aim for on his way to the Highlands and he set off again. He took a wrong turn in Dumbarton and found himself in the village of Gartocharn, looking down at Loch Lomond on his left when it should have been on his right. Exasperated, he turned and retraced his route and headed for Fort William to spend the night.

<> 

Looking out the next morning, Napoleon found the day had dawned surprisingly fair and clear. He had almost decided to head for the Mallaig ferry rather than Kyle of Lochalsh because it was nearer, but it was always better to obey Waverly’s orders. The landlady of the bed and breakfast establishment he had found the previous evening provided him with a breakfast more suited to his Russian partner than his own inclinations. He struggled with porridge (unsweetened and very salty), a large plate of bacon and eggs, and what she called a bap – a remarkable, round, floury bread roll, so dense it would have kept a family fed for some time. He drank the tea, not for pleasure, just to help the bap go down. He wouldn’t need lunch, that was certain.

<><><> 

At first, Bla Bheinn offered relatively easy walking but as they climbed higher it got tougher. They were among high precipices and gullies, at the bottom of which was thick, steep, scree and huge boulders. “Have you climbed this mountain before?” Illya asked, fearing at one point that they were likely to end up at an impassable precipice.

“Aye, I have, but not from this direction,” Sandy replied, sitting down on a jutting rock to look at the view and eat the sandwiches the girl had brought. It was stupendous: from here they could see the other Hebridean islands in the sparkling sea, and green valleys below them. “We’re lucky,” he said. “You don’t often get days like this.”

Illya grunted and looked at his watch. “We ought to keep going,” he said. He didn’t think the sandwiches would be sufficient ballast to last them for long.

“Aye, you’re right. The weather could change.”

“And the daylight will fade. I don’t want to be stuck up here in the dark among all this loose gravel.”

Sandy looked up. “Have you ever made a descent down a scree slope before?”

Illya shook his head. “No. Do we have to?”

“We might have to and without walking-poles it’s more dangerous. It takes courage the first time, but you have to kind of skip down it on your heels so as not to bring the lot down with you.”

“Seriously?” Illya stared around at an increasingly malignant terrain in some alarm, wondering if he was channelling his American partner who, he felt sure, would have preferred squelching through bog.

“Yes. You must read the rocks for the best route to avoid the loose stuff. Don’t try to climb down, or try to get a foothold. Don’t jump, just skip. And stay vertical to the angle of the slope whatever you do.”

“Read the rocks. Skip. Stay vertical… OK.”

“See it as a challenge. You’ll love it.”

A stiff climb brought them to the summit. Even Illya was impressed by the 360-degree view. The Cuillin range, like the vicious teeth of a shark, rose black against a bright sky.

“Over there, look, that’s the Red Cuillin, and westwards is the Black Cuillin. Terrific climbing,” said Sandy.

“What kind of rock?” said Illya, shading his eyes.

“The Red Cuillin is granite, the Black Cuillin is gabbro mostly, with some basalt.”

“Volcanic, then?”

“Oh, yes. This must have been a fun place once.”

“It isn’t exactly a barrel of laughs now.”

Sandy grinned. “Depends how you feel about climbing. The traverse of the Black Cuillin is for real climbers – it’s only about seven miles, but it takes about 24 hours. Care to try sometime?”

“I don’t think there _will_ be time,” said Illya grimly. “Now, shall we try to get down to the road?”

<><> 

The short ferry crossing was accomplished very easily, but the afternoon was well advanced by the time Napoleon arrived on Skye. All he had to do now was decide where to go in this oddly-shaped island, so well-endowed with mountains and singularly lacking in roads. This was a small community, however: someone, somewhere, would know something, surely? There was no choice of road so he drove in the only direction possible and stopped in the village of Broadford. Village post offices were notorious for being sources of even quite private information.

Disproving this comfortable theory, the response of the postmistress to his inquiry was unsatisfactory. Persuaded to speak English rather than Gaelic, and in the soft sibilants of the highlander, she was hardly informative. “Two young men? … You haven’t heard from them – yess, well, you wouldn’t here, there are no public telephone boxes in the hills… Lost, ye think? … So, when did you last hear from them?... Saturday?”

It seemed Sunday was the problem. No transport, no phones; you couldn’t go for a drive or fish on Sundays – “everyone wass at kirk” – whichever kirk it might be that they belonged to. “Do people go walking?” She repeated all his questions before answering them. “… Aye, people go out on the hill … If your friends are climbers, it might be best to try going south first… Where? Och, towards Elgol. A lot of people go that way to climb, ye ken. Though we had some gentlemen asking for the Free Kirk in Elgol the other day – they didn’t look like climbing types,” she added.

Now, that sounded promising.

<><> 

If Illya had been pessimistic about the idea of skipping down a scree slope, his pessimism was about to be tested. “I’ll go first,” said Sandy, “so watch what I do… and please, don’t start down till I’m out of the way,” thus admitting to a few pessimistic concerns, himself, about the Russian’s potential on scree.

Sandy stepped onto the slope, his heel hard down in the loose stones, and slid a little way before balancing on his other foot and lightly, not quite skipping, danced, heel down and feet sideways, down the slope. Illya watched the gentle slide of stones that followed him and marked the places that Sandy avoided – areas where the scree was very loose. At the bottom, Sandy turned and waved and Illya took a confident first step with his right foot. The slide was longer than he anticipated but he managed to break an uncontrolled slither with his left foot and stopped, breathing heavily. He took another more successful step, almost skipping, and kept going.

“…doing fine…” he heard from below.

It was an inelegant finish and Sandy dragged him aside as, a loose bed of scree followed him. “I’ve seen worse,” he said impartially.

Annoyed with himself, Illya said a gruff “Thanks,” and dusted himself down. “I’ll do better next time.”

It was on the last descent that things began to go wrong. The notion that no-one would expect them to climb Bla Bheinn turned out to be mistaken. Illya put his hand on a rock for balance before following Sandy down the scree but as he lifted it to wipe the sweat from his eyes, a puff of rock dust marked the spot where his hand had been and he heard the faint echo of a shot. He looked up, and saw movement high above him. In such a completely exposed position, he must move fast.

Sandy, too, had heard the shot. He had reached the bottom of the slope and now, crouched behind a rock for shelter, he watched horrified as Illya launched himself down the scree. Halfway down, a section of the slope broke away so that Illya was riding partly in and partly on top of a chaos of rocks and stones. As the cloud of dust approached, Sandy leapt out from the shelter of the rock and, dashing across the face of the falling mass, seized Illya’s arm, and the two men tumbled, rolling together helplessly with the scree down the grassy slope.

<><> 

Coming to, under a covering of stones and dust, Sandy, badly bruised and suffering from a multitude of cuts and abrasions, lay partly across the little Russian who had curled up to protect his head but was out for the count. Sandy wriggled and succeeded in pushing off some of the rocks and lighter scree and finally managed to get an arm free. Clearing his partner’s head and face and fearing the worst, he observed with relief blood flowing from a cut into the very dusty blond hair – so at least the wee fellow was alive. He carefully raised himself so that the rubble poured off him and away from Illya and then freed him too from the weight of stone. To his relief, Illya then moved, coughed, and said, “Are we alive?”

“I think so. If you can feel the bruises, you can be pretty sure of it.”

Sandy helped him to sit up and they examined each other’s injuries. It seemed they had been luckier than they deserved. There were no bones broken – unless painfully-bruised ribs and limbs and a twisted ankle counted. And their cuts and bruises could have been a lot worse. “Might be better to let that bleed itself clean,” said Sandy, checking the cut on Illya’s face. “Can you walk?”

“Can you?”

“Let’s try.”

<><><> 

The problem with the Highlands, Napoleon decided, was that there were too many mountains and lochs, and no road tunnels. You drove up one side of a loch – very picturesque to be sure – and then down the other, and followed the contours of the landscape and bits of mountain. It made a journey of a few miles very slow. And he wasn’t even certain that he was heading the right way to find his partner.

He looked across the loch at the spectacular mountains. Mountains always looked smaller than they were because you could never see anyone on them even if there were crowds of climbers up there. It would have been a very beautiful view if he weren’t so worried. He pressed on round the head of the loch and started down the other side.

It was a narrow road with passing places. There had been no other traffic whatsoever, which probably explained why the road hadn’t been widened – not that it would be easy to do in this terrain. Another car, however, now appeared in his rear-view mirror and, coming up close behind, demanded the road – an impossibility at this point. It would have to wait until the next passing place, whose little white diamond sign fortunately proclaimed itself on the right over the next rise. Napoleon stopped just short of it to enable the impatient driver behind him to skid round him into the small space and overtake. There was no courteous signal of gratitude from either the driver or his passengers. Napoleon watched them race along the road ahead and sat back thinking hard. Not locals, he decided. Those he had met so far had been more than courteous. Who were they, and where were they going in such a rush? He thought he could guess.

Succumbing to a call of nature, he got out of the car and looked around. There was a patch of woodland ahead – but too far off the road. There was nothing but the odd sheep to observe him. As he turned back to the car, he looked up at the great mass of a mountain, dark against the westering sun sinking behind it. He narrowed his gaze – coming down a rocky, grassy slope from the wood, he could see a small figure – or was it two, supporting each other? He rummaged in his bag for binoculars and saw that it was two men, stumbling with difficulty down the hillside. They both seemed to be wearing hats and clothing of a uniformly grey colour so identification was difficult but he felt he knew one of them just from his relative size – much smaller than the other and limping badly.

He saw no point in trekking across that landscape to meet them – if he turned an ankle, he’d be no use to them and it looked like they needed someone useful. But in fact, as he watched, he realised he might _have_ to go to them. Far above them, he could see in the binoculars, there were dark figures in pursuit.

<> 

They were in no fit condition to get far, but with an enemy behind them somewhere, they had no choice. Illya had made that scree slope too unstable to use again, so at least their followers would have to look for another route down.

Coming upon a burn that appeared to lead down to the loch, and therefore the road, they followed it and were grateful when it took them into comparative invisibility in a wood where they sat down, exhausted.

“Can’t stay here for ever,” said Illya after a while and with an effort got to his feet. Sandy put an arm round him and they continued their stumbling way to the road without giving much thought to what they were going to do when they reached it.

Illya’s ankle failed him again and Sandy, helping him up yet again, caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and looked round. A man was coming towards them, waving. “Who’s that?” he wondered.

Illya squinted at the shape approaching. “I don’t believe it,” he said hoarsely.

“Do you know him, then?” said Sandy in surprise.

“My own _deus ex machina_ ,” said Illya. “Napoleon.”

“Napoleon?” echoed Sandy.

“That’s me,” said Napoleon now close enough to join the conversation. “Can I be of assistance? I see my partner has taken his usual path to trouble.” He beamed at the tall Scot and, looking him up and down, said, “he seems to have taken you with him – what have you been doing to get like that?”

“Where did _you_ come from?” said Illya.

“Through banks and braes of bonny Scotland, chum, courtesy of our respected leader who sent me to find you.”

“Well, you’ve found me,” he said wonderingly. “By the way, this is Sandy – I owe him a lot.”

“But we _are_ being followed, so we need to get away,” said Sandy looking back at the mountain.

Between them they got Illya down to the car, where he was persuaded to lie down in the back and then Napoleon turned to Sandy. “Where to? Not Elgol – a car full of dubious characters passed me half an hour ago, heading that way.”

“Back the other way. Back to the farm where we’ve been staying.”

“And tomorrow?”

“We’ll go to Portree and talk to the police and the Free Church people there. Are you a Presbyterian, by any chance?”

“Catholic,” said Napoleon. “Lapsed.”

“Och, they won’t like any of us, then.”

“We’ll let Illya loose on them. He can put the fear of God into the most complacent of souls,” said Napoleon.

“I won’t bother to bath first, then,” said Illya from the back.

<><><><> 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Skye boat song: “Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing […] over the sea to Skye…”
> 
> My apologies to anyone who knows Skye better than I do (which I admit wouldn’t be difficult), but I make no apology to the Wee Frees. They get far worse insults from their compatriots, so this counts as fair comment rather than libel.
> 
> Bla Bheinn is pronounced Bla-ven. It is one of the Scottish Munros – mountains over 3,000 feet of which there are more than 280. Climbers collect them for fun – it’s called Munro-bagging. The current record for climbing them all in one go is just under 40 days.
> 
> Deus ex machina: I’m sure you know but, if not, this is the ‘god in the machine’, from ancient Greek drama when a crane lowered the god onto the stage to decide the final outcome of the drama. Cheating, really.
> 
> Sadly, since 1992, there is now a bridge to the Isle of Skye which has brought tourist coaches and car traffic to clog the single-track roads. Good for the local economy, no doubt, but not if you need the fire brigade.
> 
> Local colour: Gartocharn is where David McCallum spent his childhood during World War 2.


End file.
